Halo: Hell's Jazz
by A Big Spooky Ck
Summary: It is the distant future. Mankind has won a decisive, long war against an impossible threat. Many have been lost, and many have been crowned heroes. This is the tale of a man after that war, tired, and sick of it. But his military is far from done with him, when their own plans go haywire, and he's sent to clean up their mess with help he'd prefer not to have.


_The year is 2554, the distant future._

 _It is the first year since humanity had finished their long fight against an alien collective,_

 _The Covenant._

 _Many have died in those several years, and peace is but a shaky illusion in these rough times._

 _The names of many lost in the war are far from forgotten, and fear lingers evermore._

 _This isn't the tale of a man who ended the war, or one who particularly cared for it._

 _Nor is this the tale of a warrior reclaiming victory._

 _This is a tale in the depths of space, telling a melancholic melody for all travelers to hear._

 _This is Hell's Jazz._

* * *

It was a stormy night, like so many others. Rain was pouring in droves, and damn, was it cold. Heating had been on the fritz lately, but James Doe wasn't too keen to get out there and fix it himself. Didn't mean the whole thing didn't tick him off.

James wasn't much of a looker, and he knew it. A nasty hit from a needler back in the Arcadia gave him a wide cut along his brow, and the Jackal that came to finish the job gave him a few more scars while he was at it. 'Course, James repaid him back in full with a lead filling, but that didn't matter.

Because he sure as hell knew the blond lady waltzing in here wasn't here for his "good looks."

"I assume you're Mister Doe?" The girl had a nice voice- her accent was both soft and strange. Not from around here, if he had to guess. Wasn't too surprised. No one nice came to this town, hell, this planet. Venezia was a special kind of dump, after all.

"Call me James. I take it you aren't here for my services?" Her accent wasn't the only thing making her stick out like a black eye. She was wearing a UNSC Jacket; Navy it seems. Some kind of officer, or special position, from that pin, but James never really paid much attention to that. Not during those he did notice was how fresh she looked to the scene. Probably only joined at the tail end of the war. "Come, take a seat, kid."

"On the contrary, sir. We, well, the higher ups, really, need your expertise." She sat down, hesitant. Granted he didn't blame her caution; the old chair didn't look too sturdy, but it did the job. She held out a shaky, awkward hand over his desk, one he reluctantly shook. "I'm Agent Chel Cooper, Lieutenant, Junior Grade, from ONI. Pleasure to meet you sir."

Now James knew a mixed bag when he saw one. On one hand, business was slow around here. Small town, few crimes, and some people didn't exactly like the idea of an ex-soldier snooping around. On the other, he was just fine doing small time investigation work here, and avoiding whatever bullshit the higher ups wanted from him was exactly why he was out here at all.

"Alright, spill it. What exactly do they want from me?" As much as he wanted this girl out, and the UNSC to screw off, a part of him was mildly interested. If they spent the time looking for his ass, it was probably something pretty damn important.

"Well-"

"Oh, mind if I smoke?" But that wasn't going to stop him from giving this girl a hard time. If they wanted his attention, then sending a greenhorn wasn't exactly the brightest idea. Then again, some folks at ONI aren't too intelligent, despite the name, so he wasn't all that surprised.

She stared at him bluntly, not pleased with him grabbing a cigar, but not exactly stopping him. Not like she would, anyway. Girl looked like a twig compared to him. He noticed a brief glare from her when he lit the thing, taking a nice old puff. Might as well go back to business.

"Anyway, go on."

"Right. So, with your work at Ephialtes with us, everything else surrounding Operation: Clear Cup, and all that, well," She coughed a fair bit, swatting away the thick layer of smoke already coming from his cigar. "W-well, in exchange for a large sum of money, privacy, and-"

"Skip the rewards crap." He scowled. Kid probably rehearsed this, thinking he would be easy to draw in. Sure, the cash sounded nice but he was still waiting on the military to pay him in the first place. You'd think, after the all the shit he went through... "Just get to what I need to do."

"They didn't tell me you'd be such a..." She muttered something under her breath, probably a series of curses. She struggled to recompose herself, moving the chair back a bit. "Continuing, the UNSC has a case for you. Murder, specifically."

"What, some big time naval officer got shot down? Not my problem. ONI probably has plenty of people for that. Excluding you, of course." Oh she didn't like that. She had a large pout, and quite frankly, he was damn amused. Seriously, who the hell did they think he was? "Who the hell do you think I am?"

"Not sure." Well at least she was honest. "Either you're one of the best operatives ODST had to offer, or you're an old ass fart with the same name. So you tell me."

He clasped his hands together, straightening himself in his seat. So the dog had some bite to its bark. Now she had his attention.

"Let's split even and say I'm both. What do you want?"

"Like I said. Murder case. Dozens of casualties, on this very planet, five hours ago. We have a Pelican ready to escort you to the scene."

It was vague. Damn vague. This girl was awfully informal for an ONI agent, and this case sounded too high for a veteran like himself. He was pushing 50, and passed his prime decades ago. Why the hell did they choose him?

"Alright. Cut the shit. What's really going on here?" He slid a hand to his side, grasping the end of his pistol. Not pulling it out, but making its existence known. He didn't want to use it, but something peculiar was happenin', and he didn't like it. Not one damn bit. "Why the hell does ONI need me?"

She was unarmed, and obviously not expecting conflict. Amateurs, honestly. The hell were they thinking, sending a rookie?

"Look, sir." She grunted, raising her hands. "It's a really bad situation, and they don't want anyone big attached to this, and here is a bit too open to explain everything. Just, calm down, alright?"

He faltered for a moment. What she said made sense: sending in a rookie agent, someone probably still training, would lower suspicions of anyone watching too closely. Sure, ONI being involved in anything was nerve wracking, but if it was someone inexperienced, they'd probably think it wasn't anything big. Granted, it was a dumb plan, but in a small, relatively safe town like this, they could afford that type of move. Plus, he didn't want to bother this lady anymore anyway.

"Alright." He eased off the pistol, and she gave a hefty sigh. Figures. "Your bosses are dumbasses for thinking this'll work, but with us actually winnin' the war, I suppose anything is possible. Well, let's go see the bodies."

* * *

This had to be some kind of sick joke. Seriously. Because they dragged him all the way across the damn planet for, what? A bunch of damn dead Covies?

Indeed, they brought him out to some sort of prison lookin' place, a bit nicer looking though. It looked human at first glance, but a closer look allowed him to see the proportions were weird, and too many areas had that damn purple glow those alien bastards always put on their garbage. The mess hall they were currently in wasn't too bad. Three doors, and a railway balcony above the door behind him. It would make for a real decent place, if all the alien corpses weren't here. But here they were, and here he was.

The entire base was littered with dozens of dead Covenant. Mostly Grunts, Elites, the ones everyone said had some "good guys". Some Jackals were in the piles, and hell, there was even a Hunter spread out on a wall, gunned down. None of them looked armed, or hell, combat ready in the slightest. Not like he cared, because…

"Why the hell am I needed for this?" The greenhorn had some big, uniformed officers with her now. Plenty of marines were patrollin' the place, as if a bunch of these dead bastards were something important. Though with the look these guys had, it probably was.

"Mister Doe, given your...location on this planet, I'm quite surprised you aren't aware of what this place is." The speaker was a "Lieutenant Bradford". Serious fellow, had the look of a soldier. Quite frankly, James didn't understand why a guy like this would even give this sight the time of day, aside from maybe a good laugh. "Then again, reports say you were in the middle of nowhere, so I'll give it a pass. You're in embassy territory, Doe. Knee deep in where we tried caring for ex-Covenant members, refugees, the like. And at around 1330 today, all communications with this facility were shut off. At 1400, a marine force sent in reported this massacre. 99% casualty rate for all aliens, and all human staff members gone. Kidnapped, killed, part of the scheme, it's unknown. What is known is that this is a high priority area, and quite frankly Mister Doe, if you pardon my language, we'll be in deep shit if we don't figure out who did this. A good chunk of these refugees were with the Arbiter, and we can't afford conflict with the Sangheili...Ahem, the Elites, Mister Doe."

"So, what, you need me to clean up your mess since you don't want the Big ass Elite himself getting upset? And it's James."

"We need you because not only do we want to prevent a second war, Mister Doe," Bradford grunted out, putting a sour emphasis on his name. "But because you're one of the few people who understands who we might be dealing with. I'm sure you know the sort of folk this planet attracts."

"Insurrectionists, yeah. This place is infested with 'em. A dozen different groups, different goals, all pains in the ass." He grunted, puffing some smoke. "So...yeah, one of them could be responsible."

"Exactly. Given your supposed reputation, and work during the war, we assumed you'll be able to work things out. In any case, we hope you'll understand the importance of this case, Mister Doe. We-"

"James."

"...Excuse me?"

"Just call me James." He did another heavy puff. This guy annoyed him to hell and back, but with the options he had here… "I'm getting tired of this Mister Doe crap...and I'll take the job. With something this big, I can't exactly decline, right?"

"Smart move." Bradford grunted, turning away. "Feel free to inspect what you can. There's a witness I'd like you to meet, but we need to get him settled. Good luck...Mister Doe."

Bastard. And now he was alone in the majority of the base with a ridiculous amount of corpses. Nothing particularly new, hell, he's seen more back in the war. So it was time to get to work.

The closest corpse next to him was a Grunt. It's head was crushed, a bullet shot straight through it. It's blood had long since dried, mixing with various others into a nasty pool. Nothing important there, and the bullet shards lodged about didn't provide much help. Too much damage, probably a standard gun kill.

The elite nearby it was face down, sprawled out, like it was in a run towards the door ahead of it. Given its lack of armor, and the fact he's rarely seen the bastards run...was this a civilian? Sure, the guy said these were refugees, but...James never really thought about the Covenant as anything but monsters. Too many dead comrades for that. But that wasn't important. What was were the injuries. There were several bullet holes by the legs, and judging from the sheer amount of them, were possibly caused by automatic weapons. But it was another wound that interested him. The head: a large bullet wound, clean through the Elite's skull, from the top, through the mouth.

A sniper, perhaps? It would explain the headshots. Granted, it could just be a fluke, but this one was too clean to be a lucky shot. And with a smaller skull, of course a grunt's head would explode. But then there was an important factor...

The door with the guard balcony was behind him and the body. In this hall, it would be the only good sniping post, and a good way to take command of a room. But the bullet in this Elite was through the top, not through the back and out the front. Even factoring in the elite falling from the leg wounds, this type of shot can accomplished through only two ways: the sniper took up position in the hallway ahead of them, or, given the brutality of this attack…

This was an execution.

He checked another corpse, this one away from view of the three hallways. A Jackal, slewn over a table on its back. Three bullets through the chest...and a bullet clean through the eyes. Same type of hole. Exact wound.

He searched the hallways, checking the corpses there. Elites, Jackals, Grunts, all each having one thing in common: a bullet wound, always through the head. Sometimes there wasn't even a need for it. A Jackal he found was riddled with bullets all over, practically falling apart. But the skull was untouched, save for that one certain wound. He had a thought. A single thought, but he just had to make sure…

There was still the Hunter. It was on the wall, slumped over, sitting. It was weaponless, but the armor was still there. Dozens of bullets had punctured through it, and the exposed worms of the beast were equally damaged. A few of the damned things were dead on the floor, in bits and pieces. Carefully, he stepped on the titan's legs, peeking over to see it's skull.

And there it was. The clean bullet wound. It went straight through the armor, leaving nothing but a hole, some chippings, and bits of flesh. He didn't know where the bullet was, but hoped it was still in there. The type of ammo that could penetrate this armor...this was definitely a higher end group. One with one hell of vendetta.

These bullet wounds were less from battle, and more of a calling card. Something to show anyone interested that the perpetrators weren't chumps. They were big leaguers. Skilled, resourceful. And they knew it. They wanted everyone to know it, too.

But one thing interested him. Throughout his search, he'd yet to find another Hunter. While he hadn't search the entire building, the things were always close. And if one died, the other would protect the body like hell. So for there to not be another Hunter in the area…

"-I warned you, he may be inspecting-"

James didn't hear another word as something charged into the room, slamming him into the wall with impressive ease. Huffing and roaring as it held him onto the steel, James quickly realized: he just found his missing Hunter.

Coughing, he tried to reach for his gun before noticing that damned bastard Bradford was running in. And hell, the greenhorn as well? What the hell was going on here?!

"Please, Maghiganti, the only way you'll avenge your bond brother is, unfortunately, this old fart." The kid (Cooper, was it?), weakly pulled on the...whatever the hell she called it's arm. Surprisingly, the monster listened. Christ. On a better look, this Hunter was massive, even for usual standards. It towered over everyone here, and it constantly looked pissed. "T-thank you."

"What in the Goddamn hell is going on here Bradford?!"

"This," He gave a smug chuckle, like he knew this would happen. Probably did. Bastard. "Is your witness, and for this case, a partner-"

"What," James laughed, hoping to God he wasn't saying what he think he was saying. "The greenhorn? Look I appreciate the help but-"

"No, no, Mister Doe. You're quite mistaken. Not only is Mister Maghiganti here, your witness to the situation, but, due to a little agreement between the Brass and the higher ups in the Arbiter's forces, you have the pleasure of being his partner for this investigation."

"Happy hunting, Mister Doe."

 **Chapter 1: Wasted With Your Pals.**

 _ **End**_


End file.
